Behind The Wall
by SherlockianWhovian
Summary: Inspired by Sherlock's various taunts towards Mycroft, this is a look behind Mycroft's mental wall.
1. Chapter 1

The abuse had begun when they were children. Sherlock was always the first in line to criticize his elder brother and regularly played pranks. Throughout his teenage years, Mycroft had often woken to find dead things in his bedroom, or beetles and ants in his bed. He hated it but he struggled to hide his reactions from his little brother. Sherlock thrived on Mycroft's reactions and his pranks only increased as they both grew up. Mycroft trained himself to be cold and indifferent towards the pranks that were regularly pulled on him and eventually Sherlock stopped. Filling Mycroft's shoes with maggots and putting dead mice in his desk drawers soon lost its appeal as Mycroft's emotions became hardened and controlled.

Sherlock stopped his pranks and instead turned his attention to using words as a weapon. He saw the wall that Mycroft was building to protect himself but he also saw how easily that wall could become cracked and broken. He studied Mycroft for weeks, watching how certain taunts affected him. A few harsh comments about Mycroft's weight and his brother spent almost a whole summer eating nothing but salad and fruit. Mycroft was Sherlock's private project, the one human being that he could study every day. Mycroft was a psychologist's dream case study; with a mind so intelligent and above average but with self-esteem so low it restricted him considerably.

Mycroft had no control over the impact Sherlock's words had on him, but the one thing he did have control over was his weight and what he ate. He strived to be slimmer and fitter, thinking the taunts would stop once Sherlock saw that he was no longer fat. Mycroft worked hard, counting calories and constantly weighing himself to make sure that his weight was decreasing.

"Mycroft, this isn't healthy. You're going to do damage to yourself. You need to eat meat or at least some cheese, you'll become ill without protein." Mummy said with worry as Mycroft weighed his salad before he ate it.

"I am perfectly healthy, Mummy. I want to lead an active, fat-free lifestyle." Mycroft replied, taking no notice of her words.

After almost a year of Mycroft starving himself to become slim, Mummy had enough. She took her teenage son to a doctor who arranged counseling to begin the following week.

"So what's wrong with you? Bulimia? Anorexia? You're such a freak, Mycroft." Sherlock taunted as soon as Mummy left the two of them alone, "Look at you. You're so ugly. You can't even diet without getting it wrong!"

Mycroft just nodded, unable to even think of a reply to his brother. He remained thin and trapped by his cruel younger brother until he was able to move out and go to university. Living away from home gave him freedom to live his life without taunts. He gained weight rapidly, indulging in junk food and cakes in a way he never had previously. It felt amazing to eat meat, cheese and sugar again after years of just salad and water. The flavours tasted wonderful and he was able to ignore his expanding waistline as he focused on his studies.

After three years of indulgence, Mycroft returned home with a 1st degree from Oxford and a large waistline. Sherlock had grown up and matured but that didn't mean that he'd changed. He had three years worth of insults and taunts ready and waiting in his mind palace. The constant psychological abuse sent Mycroft back into a downward spiral of weight loss and caused him to flee from home and to London instead.

Just a few years later and it was Sherlock who was suffering. He'd gotten himself into a bad circle of friends whilst in his first year at Cambridge and had been kicked out for drug use. Sherlock went from place to place, begging and stealing to fund his drug addiction. It was Mycroft, the brother he'd bullied since childhood, that came to his aide.

"What are you doing here? I don't want you to be here." Sherlock slurred his words, clearly high, as Mycroft approached.

"Cambridge called to say you'd been kicked out." Mycroft said, looking around the dirty flat that Sherlock was currently living in, "Goodness knows why you prefer this to your room at the university."

"Come to give me a lecture?" Sherlock hissed.

"Of course not, that would be a complete waste of my time." Mycroft replied, "I just wanted to check that you were still alive, brother."

"Get lost, Mycroft." Sherlock muttered.

"Gladly. Try not to overdose, brother mine." Mycroft said, turning and leaving the flat quickly. He disliked seeing Sherlock high as he cared for his younger brother immensely. He visited Sherlock twice a month at first, but ended up dragging his brother out of drug dens twice a week. Sherlock descended rapidly into drug abuse; he barely even recognized his own brother as he was dragged out of drug dens in the early hours of the morning. Mycroft finally had enough and had Sherlock put away into a rehab clinic. He enjoyed being the one in control for once, as Sherlock had manipulated and controlled him when he was younger.

"You're enjoying this." Sherlock accused on one of Mycroft's visits.

"Of course not, brother mine." Mycroft replied with a slight smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Here's a new chapter! Please review!**_

* * *

"I expected you to escape, brother mine, but did you need to be so dramatic?" Mycroft sighed, walking into his office and flicking on the light.

Sherlock was sat in Mycroft's chair with his feet up on the desk, "I thought it was all rather entertaining." he replied.

" _Entertaining_ is not breaking out of your rehab clinic with a homemade smoke bomb." Mycroft said with a frown, "How did you get in here? This is a government building."

"How do you think?" Sherlock smirked, holding up one of Mycroft's ID cards.

Mycroft snatched the card out of Sherlock's hand, "I've told you to stop using my ID." he snapped.

"If anything, I'm offended that I have to use your picture to get through doors, Fatcroft." Sherlock laughed.

"You wouldn't have to use my picture if you stopped acting out and got a job." Mycroft said, turning away from his brother.

"A job like yours, Fatcroft? How nice it must be for you to sit at a desk and eat cake all day every day." Sherlock sneered, "It must be your dream job."

"I've grown up and taken responsibility for myself, Sherlock. You still resort to being childish and immature." Mycroft replied as he walked away, "Don't forget to put the alarm on when you leave."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded, getting to his feet.

"Home." Mycroft called back, "You chose to leave rehab so you can find yourself somewhere to live."

"You can't just leave me here!" Sherlock shouted at his brother as he walked away, "Mycroft!"

* * *

Mycroft returned home and went straight to the large kitchen. He put down his umbrella and briefcase before he went to the fridge. With a sigh, he pulled out all of his sugary treats and binned them all. Now Sherlock was around again, he knew he'd have to watch his calorie intake. He went through the whole kitchen, binning sweets, cupcakes, chocolate and ice cream. He had a small salad for dinner with just a glass of water instead of his usual glass of wine. He disliked changing his lifestyle back to healthy eating but he knew he had to in order to keep Sherlock off his back.

"What would you like for lunch, Sir?" Anthea asked the following morning, standing in the doorway of Mycroft's office.

"Sherlock is out of rehab so I'll be eating salads for lunch from now on." Mycroft said.

"Plain salads? No meat, fish or dressing?" Anthea asked.

"No. Just plain salad leaves with some vegetables." Mycroft replied with a sigh.

"These crash diets aren't a good idea, Mr Holmes." Anthea said gently before she walked away. She'd suspected that Mycroft had an eating disorder when she'd started working for him and she was careful to provide advice rather than criticize him like his brother did.

* * *

"You're looking very slim again, Mycroft." Mummy Holmes said as she met Mycroft in a fancy Mayfair restaurant.

"Thank you, Mummy." Mycroft said, sitting opposite his mother at the table.

"It wasn't a compliment, Mycroft." Mummy said before she changed the subject, "Tell me about Sherlock. How is he doing at Cambridge? He doesn't return my calls."

"He's doing ever so well." Mycroft lied on his brother's behalf. He'd decided not to tell Mummy about Sherlock's drug addiction.

"What is the course called again?" Mummy asked.

"It's a BA in Chemical Engineering." Mycroft replied, "He's more than capable of getting a 1st. He's always excelled in chemistry."

"He's probably keen to get a 1st because you got a 1st from Oxford. He's always wanted to copy you." Mummy replied.

"If he was so keen to copy me then he would have gone to Oxford and studied BA Chemistry like he was advised to." Mycroft said as he sipped his wine.

"You're too hard on him, Mycroft. He's always been a free spirit. Do you think he'll ever find a companion?" Mummy asked.

"A companion? I don't think Sherlock wants a companion." Mycroft replied.

"I'm sure he does. He can see how happy you are with that nice girl." Mummy said.

"Anthea? Anthea isn't my partner, Mummy. She's just my assistant at work." Mycroft said quickly.

"Of course she is, Mycroft." Mummy replied with a chuckle, "Keep telling yourself that."


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, how wonderful." Mycroft muttered as he saw his brother in the restaurant foyer, "Sherlock is here."

"Behave, Mike." Mummy warned as Mycroft got to his feet.

"I'll restrain myself, Mummy." Mycroft replied before he made his way out to the foyer, "What are you doing here, brother? Mummy thinks you're at Cambridge."

"I'm here for you. You've bugged my flat!" Sherlock hissed menacingly, making an attempt at punching Mycroft.

Mycroft moved quickly, hitting the backs of Sherlock's knees with his umbrella and restraining Sherlock's arms in a tight hold. "There is no need for violence, brother." he said, "Leave. Now. We can do this later."

"Mycroft!" Mummy exclaimed as she joined them in the foyer.

Mycroft immediately let his brother go and moved away. "Apologies, Mummy." he said.

"Go and sit down." Mummy ordered.

"But Mummy-" Mycroft began to protest.

"No, Mycroft. I am your mother and you will listen to me. Go and sit down." Mummy replied harshly.

Sherlock watched with amusement as Mummy and Mycroft stared each other down for a few moments before Mycroft relented and made his way back to the table.

"What are you smiling at? You're both as bad as each other." Mummy said, turning her attention to Sherlock.

"Mycroft started it!" Sherlock protested.

"You know as well as I do that you're telling lies to me. It's lovely to see you, Sherlock. Go home." Mummy said, pulling her youngest son into a hug before she made her way back into the restaurant. Sherlock watched her go before he stormed out, returning to his latest small and dirty flat.

"You mustn't let him upset you, Mike." Mummy said as she sat down.

"Sherlock didn't upset me, he tried to hit me." Mycroft muttered, "I'd rather not be assaulted."

"Mycroft." Mummy reprimanded.

"Are you ready to order your mains?" the waiter asked, arriving at the table.

"Yes, I'll have the-" Mycroft began.

"Mycroft will have your largest steak cooked medium rare with a large side of chunky chips." Mummy spoke over her son.

"With a sauce?" the waiter asked.

"Yes. BBQ sauce with cheese on top." Mummy replied with a smile, "And I'll have the aubergine lasagne."

Mycroft glared at his mother but didn't speak until the waiter was out of earshot. "What are you doing? I'm on a diet!" he exclaimed.

"You've already forgotten your manners and misbehaved once today, Mycroft. I hope you'll eat your food like a good boy." Mummy replied.

"Mummy, I'm not a child anymore. I am a government official." Mycroft said in frustration.

"I have no interest in what you do when you are at home, Mycroft, but when you are with me you will eat properly. You are becoming too thin again and I refuse to watch you starve yourself during our lunches." Mummy replied sharply.

"Yes, Mummy." Mycroft replied with a sigh, not wanting to argue with her anymore. From then on, he was practically forced to order a large meal once a month. The rest of the time, he continued his dieting. He was careful not to allow himself to become too thin, as he didn't want awkward questions to be asked at work.

* * *

"Sit down, Detective Inspector." Mycroft said with a dark smile, using his umbrella to point to the one chair in the middle of the docklands warehouse.

Greg Lestrade examined the tall and slim man in front of him. He looked important but Greg did his best not to feel intimidated. "What are you? The mafia?" he demanded, ignoring the chair.

"Oh no. Something far worse than the mafia." Mycroft laughed dryly.

"Why am I here?" Greg asked.

"I have a job for you." Mycroft replied.

"A job? I don't take bribes and I'm not corrupt." Greg said.

"I'm not asking you to take a bribe. I'm asking you to keep an eye on this man." Mycroft said, handing over an A4 picture of Sherlock.

"Who is he?" Greg asked.

"A person of interest." Mycroft replied.

"And who are you?" Greg asked.

"An interested party. His name is Sherlock Holmes. He has a history of drug abuse. Do not allow him to relapse. Good day, Inspector." Mycroft said, turning on his heel and walking away.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm to take you home now." Anthea called with a smile, standing beside the open car door. She was used to Mycroft's 'kidnappings' and found them extremely entertaining.

"This is bloody mental." Greg muttered, shaking his head and walking back to the car.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm going to Florida. I thought I should notify you as you're my emergency contact." Sherlock said, lounging on Mycroft's home sofa.

"To Florida? What's brought this about?" Mycroft asked as he sat a few feet away in his armchair.

"You, mainly. You've got that DI following me around. It's irritating." Sherlock replied.

"Good. I'm glad it's irritating. Now you know how I feel when you're around." Mycroft said with a slight chuckle.

"Get used to it. You're stuck with me." Sherlock laughed, throwing one of the sofa cushions at his brother.

Mycroft caught the cushion, "And you're stuck with me, brother mine."

* * *

"I heard from Sherlock this week. Apparently he's enjoying Florida and he's got an internship over there." Mycroft told Mummy as they sat down together for their monthly lunch.

"An internship? With who?" Mummy asked.

"The law department." Mycroft replied.

"Has he ever had an interest in the law before?" Mummy asked.

"Only in breaking it." Mycroft chuckled.

"Mycroft!" Mummy exclaimed.

"What? You know it's true." Mycroft laughed.

"What will you be ordering for lunch today?" Mummy asked, watching her son over the top of the menu.

"A large meal, Mummy." Mycroft replied, looking at the menu options.

"You're a good boy, Mykie." Mummy said with a smile, gently touching Mycroft's hand for a moment.

* * *

"I'll be coming home in a few days. I'm bringing a friend back with me. Could you find her a central London house?" Sherlock asked as he spoke to his brother on the phone.

" _Would this friend be Martha Hudson, wife of the recently deceased Frank Hudson?_ " Mycroft asked.

"Yes, it would. I didn't realize that you had a subscription to Florida Today newspaper." Sherlock replied.

" _I don't, but I do take an interest in my drug addict brother returning home with the widow of a drug cartel owner._ " Mycroft said.

"Just find her somewhere to live and send a car to the airport." Sherlock sighed before he ended the call.

* * *

Mycroft stood beside his black Jaguar outside of arrivals at London Heathrow. He glanced at his watch, knowing Sherlock and Mrs Hudson would have collected their bags by now. After just a few more minutes of waiting, he spotted them leaving the airport. He made no move to approach them; instead he waited for Sherlock to see him.

"What are you doing here, Fatcroft?" Sherlock asked, leading Mrs Hudson over to the car.

"I'm your taxi home." Mycroft replied, turning to Mrs Hudson, "Good afternoon, I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."

"Martha Hudson. It's lovely to meet you, dear." Mrs Hudson replied, kissing Mycroft's cheek gently.

Mycroft opened the boot and put their cases into the car as Sherlock opened the car door for Mrs Hudson. He shut the boot lid and climbed into the driving seat, powering up the engine as he put on his seatbelt. He'd passed his driving test during his teenage years but hardly ever drove anymore. He checked his mirrors cautiously before he drove out of the arrivals pick-up area and into the city.

"So, where are we going to, Fatcroft?" Sherlock asked, kicking the back of Mycroft's seat.

"Don't distract me, Sherlock. I'd hate to kill you in an accident." Mycroft said, sarcasm in his voice, "We're going to Baker Street. I've managed to acquire a townhouse for Mrs Hudson. It's number 221."

"Baker Street? It's expensive there." Sherlock whistled.

"Yes, it is. The house is completely paid for. The bills are on direct debits out of my private account." Mycroft replied.

"That's very generous of you, Fatcroft. It's a shame that you're not that generous with sharing your pudding portions." Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft ignored his brother's words as he parked up outside of 221 Baker Street. He got out of the car and went straight to the boot, lifting Mrs Hudson's bags out and onto the pavement.

"Welcome to your new home, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock exclaimed, snatching the door keys out of Mycroft's hand and opening the front door, "My brother is paying so make sure you use as much water and electricity as possible."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson chuckled, following him into the house.

Mycroft sighed and picked up the bags, carrying them into the hallway of the townhouse. He'd had it cleaned and decorated plainly, allowing Mrs Hudson to decorate it in her chosen colours. "If you need anything, give me a call." he said, handing her his business card.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes." Mrs Hudson said with a smile, taking the card and putting it into her pocket.

"Don't call him, call me." Sherlock chuckled, giving Mrs Hudson a gentle hug before he followed Mycroft out to the car.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating! I moved house and have only just got an internet connection again! Please review =]**_

* * *

"This is very inconvenient, Mycroft. Lestrade has started inviting me on cases but I had to decline a murder today because of you." Sherlock told his brother with a scowl.

"I do apologize for being shot whilst on a mission." Mycroft replied, looking up at his brother from his hospital bed.

"Surely you're too fat for missions?" Sherlock smirked.

"No, actually. I fitted in just fine to the mafia." Mycroft replied, trying to ignore his brother's words.

"I'll have the hospital put you on the diet menu. You look like a beached whale in that bed." Sherlock said, looking him over.

"A beached whale? That's not a very inventive simile, brother dearest. Couldn't you come up with anything better?" Mycroft chuckled, doing his best to fight against his brother's words.

"I could, but you're just not worth my time." Sherlock sneered, "Now I know that I'm burdened with your presence for a while longer, I'm going to Lestrade's crime scene."

"Be careful, brother." Mycroft warned with a sigh.

"Oh look, Fatcroft, the nurses are here with biscuits! Don't eat too many!" Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically before he left the hospital room.

Sherlock's words hurt and Mycroft wished his brother hadn't come to visit at all. He made a mental note to change the emergency contact information on his medical records. He accepted a cup of tea and three biscuits from the nurses but he regretted them almost immediately after he'd swallowed them. He could hear Sherlock's words in his head as though they were being shouted at him. His stay in the private hospital was brief, just 48 hours, but he strictly controlled what food he ate. He blamed his apparent lack of appetite on nausea, not wanting the nurses to be alarmed and to keep him in any longer. He was relieved to be discharged and allowed to return home. He disposed of the painkillers he'd been prescribed and chose to put up with the pain of the healing bullet wound. If anything, it gave him something to focus on whilst he rapidly lost weight.

* * *

"Did you invite Sherlock like I asked you to, Mycroft?" Mummy asked as they sat at their usual table for lunch.

"Of course, Mummy. You know how he is, he might not even turn up." Mycroft replied, checking his watch before he sipped at his wine. There was a commotion in the foyer and Mycroft didn't need to look up to know that Sherlock had arrived. He hadn't seen his brother since his brief stay in hospital.

"Sherlock!" Mummy exclaimed in horror when she saw her youngest son's bloodstained clothes.

"It's okay, Mummy. It's not my blood." Sherlock said, sitting down beside his brother, "Mycroft." he added with a slight nod.

"Sherlock, could you not put on nice clothes just for our lunch?" Mycroft sighed, looking his brother over.

"At least my clothes fit me, Fatcroft. Yours are straining at the seems." Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock. Behave." Mummy said, watching her sons over the top of her menu.

"It's fine, Mummy. I'm used to Sherlock's words." Mycroft spoke up, glancing at his brother.

The waiter arrived and took their food orders before he left them alone again.

"Not dieting then, brother?" Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock. Stop. Mycroft is making himself ill and you're not helping." Mummy reprimanded.

"Mummy, I am not ill." Mycroft sighed.

"Be quiet, Mykie. You're clearly underweight for your size." Mummy dismissed.

"He's been dieting since he was shot." Sherlock declared.

"Mycroft? You were shot?" Mummy gasped in shock.

"Sherlock, can you not just keep your mouth shut?" Mycroft snapped in irritation, "Yes, Mummy, I was shot. It was a few weeks ago now and I am perfectly well again."

"Why didn't you tell me, Mycroft? I would have come to visit earlier." Mummy said sadly, reaching out to touch her eldest son's hand.

Mycroft pulled his hand away, "This is why I didn't tell you, Mummy. You get all sentimental." he replied with an annoyed sigh.

"And you'd never ever get sentimental would you, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered sarcastically.

"You must be more careful, Mycroft. Surely there's a job you could do that has less risk of being shot?" Mummy asked worriedly.

"I dislike legwork, Mummy, but it's an essential part of my current job. My next rank of job shouldn't involve as much fieldwork as this. I expect a promotion within the next 10 months." Mycroft replied sharply, ending the discussion.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review! =]**_

* * *

"I must say, brother, this new role is exactly right for you." Sherlock sneered sarcastically as he lounged in Mycroft's office chair.

"It requires much less legwork than my previous position which I am pleased about." Mycroft replied as he looked through his filing cabinet.

"Legwork does such havoc to your eating schedule, afterall." Sherlock muttered.

"For your information, I barely have time to eat. I am mostly preoccupied with meetings, paperwork and conference calls." Mycroft replied calmly.

"You must binge eat at home then, Fatcroft. Do you eat in your sleep? I bet you do. You've barely lost an ounce of weight in the last year." Sherlock said, watching his brother. He was determined to make his older brother snap, but despite his jibes, Mycroft remained cool, calm and collected.

"Don't you have a case, brother? The DI assured me that he'd keep you busy." Mycroft said, pulling out a file and resting it on top of the filing cabinet.

"There are lots of cases, brother mine, but none of them are above a 5." Sherlock replied, spinning Mycroft's desk globe.

"What a shame that London's serial killers aren't active. How sad you must be." Mycroft said sarcastically as he read through the file.

"Be careful, Mycroft. I'd hate to be the one standing over your bloated corpse." Sherlock said as he got to his feet.

"How nice and brotherly you are. Good afternoon, brother dear. Don't get yourself into any trouble, I'd hate to have to bail you out." Mycroft called after his brother's retreating back.

* * *

Mycroft stood in his bedroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He turned to the side, smoothing down his suit. He sighed and shook his head a little, displeased with what he saw. He shut the wardrobe door, hiding the mirror before he changed out of his suit and into his pyjamas. Despite the compliments he received from Anthea and his doctors, it was Sherlock's harsh words that seemed to hover in his mind. He had a whole area in his mind dedicated to Sherlock's scathing insults. When he was feeling particularly low, he listened to Sherlock's words, over and over again as he counted calories and cut out meat, fish, sugars and bread. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was an illness, but that didn't stop him from continuing his crash diets. He'd ignored the look Anthea had given him at lunchtime when he refused the food she'd brought him but he knew he'd have to be careful not to make her too suspicious. Anthea was a dedicated and determined assistant and he'd hate for her to tell Mummy of his dieting.

* * *

It was just over a month later when Mycroft next saw Sherlock in person. He'd observed him through CCTV and had surveillance agents watching him, but it was still a relief to see that his little brother was alive, well and still clean. Mycroft himself was the slimmest he'd been in years. He'd put himself onto a strict crash diet and had succeeded, his stomach now flat, taut and free of any fat. His previously fitted suits now hung off his thin frame. His face was thin and pale, revealing the strain on his body from the lack of nutrients. He sat opposite Sherlock in the living room at Baker Street, looking around at Sherlock's strange collection of objects.

"Surely your diet isn't actually working, brother mine?" Sherlock sneered sarcastically as his eyes raked over Mycroft.

"I have given my diet more thought this time around." Mycroft replied.

"I'll have to give you a new nickname. Fatcroft hardly seems appropriate. Perhaps Thincroft? Palecroft? Or Illcroft?" Sherlock said with a chuckle.

"Mycroft is my name, brother dear. Feel free to use it." Mycroft replied, rolling his eyes a little.

"It's such a shame that Mummy isn't here to celebrate this moment." Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft frowned, "I doubt Mummy would celebrate." he murmured.

The doorbell rang and Sherlock smiled, "That'll be her now!" he chuckled.

"You invited Mummy?" Mycroft said in surprise, getting to his feet.

"Sherlock!" Mummy said with a smile, embracing her youngest son before she turned to her eldest son with a frown, "Mycroft. You look...different."

"Mummy." Mycroft said quietly, feeling like a naughty schoolboy as he leant down to kiss her cheek.


	7. Chapter 7

"You really do look terrible, Mycroft. You should stop this diet nonsense." Mummy said with a frown, her worried eyes focused on Mycroft.

"I feel happier when I am a few pounds lighter, Mummy." Mycroft replied coolly.

"You look ill, Mycroft." Mummy sighed.

"I am perfectly well, Mummy." Mycroft replied, "You are being dramatic."

"I'm being dramatic?" Mummy laughed with a raised eyebrow, "It's not me who goes on a crash diet whenever Sherlock throws a tantrum."

"I don't throw tantrums!" Sherlock protested.

"Be quiet, Sherlock." Mummy said.

"My diet has nothing to do with Sherlock." Mycroft replied.

"Mycroft, I'm your mother, you can't lie to me." Mummy said sternly, "You may be able to trick the rest of the world with your words, but not me. You will tell me what is going on or I will take you to a hospital."

* * *

"Who is that with my brother?" Mycroft asked, looking at the CCTV footage that Anthea had brought to his attention. The videos showed Sherlock bringing a man with a cane along to a crime scene in Brixton.

"Dr John Watson. Formerly a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He served in Afghanistan for three years until he was shot in the shoulder. He currently has a therapist, to deal with a psychosomatic limp and PTSD." Anthea read from the file on her desk.

"Find him. I think it's time that I had a little chat with Dr Watson." Mycroft said with a dark smile. He sat back down at his desk and picked up the phone, dialing the numbers of telephone boxes as John Watson walked along the street beside them.

* * *

"Your brother, Mycroft, said that you upset your mother. What did he mean?" John asked as he sat beside his new flatmate in a cab back to Baker Street. They'd just come away from the crime scene where the cabbie, Jeff Hope, now lay in a pool of blood but it was Mycroft that John found himself most curious about.

"Mycroft twists the truth and Mummy lets him." Sherlock sighed, "Mycroft has a history of crash dieting. He told Mummy that it was my fault that he did it. So now, somehow, I've apparently upset her."

"Did you bully him?" John asked.

"No. He was fat and ugly, it wasn't bullying. If anything, I encouraged him to diet." Sherlock protested.

"That's a bit not good, you know." John chuckled a little.

"It's Mycroft. It doesn't matter." Sherlock shrugged, "He's old enough to cope with a few harsh words. Have you seen how his hair is thinning? That shows that he must be old enough to cope. He's the British Government, I'm sure he has much more things to deal with."

"He's still your brother." John replied.

"Sadly, yes. He's insufferable and I've been stuck with him for my whole life." Sherlock muttered, "I did try to be rid of him, naturally, but he foiled my plan."

"You tried to kill your brother?" John laughed, shock on his face.

"Yes. I was 9 and he was 16. I was far too obvious and predictable at that age. He was just as insufferable and paranoid as he is now." Sherlock explained.

"Wasn't there ever a time when you were friends?" John asked curiously.

"Yes. We used to play together in the garden when I was a child. It was a long time ago." Sherlock answered before he looked out of the window of the cab, not saying anymore about his history with his older brother.

John glanced at Sherlock a couple of times on the journey home, but didn't bring up the subject again. He could tell that Sherlock was uncomfortable discussing Mycroft.

* * *

"No. I won't take it." Sherlock declared in his bored tone as he lay on the sofa with his back to his brother.

"Sherlock. You're being immature. You need a case and I'm offering one to you." Mycroft replied from where he was stood in the middle of the living room, swinging his umbrella slightly.

"None of your cases are interesting. You only give them to me so you can spy on me." Sherlock accused.

"This case is different. It's a murder." Mycroft said, trying his best to interest his brother.

"No. I'm not interested, Mycroft. Go and eat some cake." Sherlock snapped.

"Fine." Mycroft sighed, placing the file down and leaving the room. He walked down the staircase and out to his waiting car. Once inside, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to reflect on the case he'd offered his brother.


	8. Chapter 8

The cake jibes were the words that cut most deeply.

Mycroft had given up cake so long ago that he barely remembered the taste or the texture of the sugary foodstuff. It had been years since the crash dieting had began and Mycroft was well aware that it now controlled his life. Every single moment of his waking hours was on a schedule and time to eat was the smallest amount of time allocated to anything. He allocated more time to showering and dressing than he did for lunch. Mycroft knew that he needed to eat more, he could feel the dull ache of hunger almost constantly now, but he still felt fat.

When he was dressing in the morning, he could feel the weight on his hips. He looked into the mirror and pinched his stomach, shuddering in disgust when he was able to grip a small amount of flesh between his fingers. He wasn't good enough, he knew that. He'd never be good enough until the fat was gone and the weight was off. It has been years of hard work to get to this point and no matter how much he craved the rich flavours of meat and cupcakes and chips, he knew that he couldn't stop now.

* * *

"I'm sorry, my dear. I don't know what came over me." Mycroft murmured as he relaxed in his office chair, his eyes clamped shut in an effort to avoid the dizziness he felt.

"Here, have a bit of chocolate." Anthea urged, carefully breaking of a chunk from one of the Cadbury's Dairy Milk chocolate bars she kept in her desk.

"I couldn't possibly..." Mycroft began, swallowing to avoid the nausea that was caused by his lack of breakfast or lunch that day.

"Mycroft, you need to raise your blood sugar levels." Anthea warned, "You feinted in the corridor, you're lucky it wasn't in a meeting."

"There are plenty of reasons why I could have feinted, why does everyone insist on blaming my diet?" Mycroft demanded, trying to sound angry but failing miserably.

"Mycroft, look." Anthea sighed, taking his thin, frail wrist in her hand.

Mycroft slowly opened his eyes, focusing on her hand. He was shocked to see that his entire wrist fitted easily into her hand.

"Do you see now?" Anthea asked, "Do you see how thin you are?"

"I'm not thin, I'm healthier now." Mycroft protested, wrenching his wrist out of her grip.

"You're killing yourself, Mycroft. You're becoming a shell, a shadow of your former self." Anthea replied, letting him go.

"There is nothing wrong with me!" Mycroft snapped, standing up too quickly. He groaned slightly as he feinted again, hitting the floor with a thud.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, wake up." Anthea urged, reaching for her Blackberry when she couldn't rouse her boss.

* * *

What was that infuriating beeping sound?

Didn't they know that he was trying to sleep?

Wait. Sleep? He'd just been at the office, hadn't he? Why was he asleep?

Mycroft's eyes snapped open suddenly, the bright lights and loud hospital sounds hitting him hard and temporarily disorientating him.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." Anthea said from his side, looking down at him with a sad smile.

"Hospital?" Mycroft murmured in confusion, his voice feeling hoarse and sore due to lack of use.

"Yes, you were admitted after your second feinting spell." Anthea replied, holding up a cup for him to drink from.

Mycroft carefully swallowed down some water to loosen his throat. He made to lift his arms but frowned when he found that they were stopped from moving by thick, medical straps.

"You've tied me down?" he asked his PA with a raised eyebrow.

"The doctor decided it was best. They all seem to think that you were attempting suicide with your attempts at starvation." Anthea explained gently, "They'll take them off when you start showing progress."

"How long will I be here for?" Mycroft asked, leaning up to examine the straps for any hint of an escape opportunity.

"As long as it takes to get you back on your feet again." Anthea replied, "You're seriously ill, Mycroft. It's going to take time."

"But what about work?" Mycroft asked with a frown.

"I'll stand in for you where necessary, but you'll still be able to complete your paperwork from here. I know you can't just walk away from work completely." Anthea said.

"After all this time, why are you ruining my progress? It took so long to get to this point." Mycroft admitted sadly.

"I'm helping you, Mycroft." Anthea sighed, "I hope you'll be able to see that soon."


End file.
